


He was pointing at the moon, but I was looking at his hand.

by nevermetawolf



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Episode: s04e04 The Benefactor, F/M, I just don't like how Jeff Davis writes her, I like malia, i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 14:57:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2029341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nevermetawolf/pseuds/nevermetawolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's still dark when she opens her eyes, so she stops opening them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He was pointing at the moon, but I was looking at his hand.

**Author's Note:**

> Title belongs to Richard Siken.
> 
> I liked Malia's character. I thought she had a lot of potential, so it kind of upsets me that the writers are just ignoring her obvious survivor's guilt and the fact that she's been a coyote for a long time and shouldn't be acting as normal as she is.
> 
> Hence, this. 
> 
> I don't even know.

 

It's still dark when she opens her eyes. It's like she's suspended in time, unsure of where she is. _What_ she is. Trying desperately to hold on, grasping at strings, all red, all leading nowhere, just further into the pitch-black.

But there are noises, little crackling huffs, like wind against wood or dry leaves beneath feet. It's still dark when she opens her eyes, though she tries to see, to move, to do something. Her limbs are a tangle of heavy numbness, but she's able to work fumbling hands to the pressing weight on her chest. Without the cutting anchor to keep her in place, she falls.

She falls for a long time. Even when she hits the ground with a pained thud she's falling, deeper and deeper. It's hard to breathe, to think, to do anything but hear the soft cries and smell burning metal.

It's still dark when she opens her eyes, raises her dizzy head, counts her fingers, each at a time. Ten. Not dreaming then. Awake, alive.

Cool leather rubs her slick skin, sticking slightly like a lingering touch. She reaches forward. For what, she's not sure. But there has to be something beyond the night. Something to cling to, throw her arms around and ride out the chaotic calm, mute the ear splitting silence. 

Her finger tips meet surface.

It's still dark when she opens her eyes, but it's no longer quiet. The faint, whispering sighs are now trembling screams. They remind her of screeching tires. 

_Don't touch me. Please. Leave me alone._

Her sister's voice, the same one that sings to her sometimes when she can't sleep, melodic and smooth. 

Now it's cracked and broken. Jagged pieces of glass that pierce her stomach, draw blood.

Her own lips part and release a husky breath. _Breanna?_

The shape curls further away. It's still dark when she opens her eyes, but she can sense the movement somehow. 

_Breanna?_ she murmurs again.

_Leave me alone. Leave me alone, you monster. You're not my sister. You're a -_

It's cut off by gurgling and something warm splatters across her face. She runs a tongue over her bottom lip. The taste is sour. Metallic.

It's still dark when she opens her eyes, climbs through the window, and stumbles out of the capsized vehicle. Her bare sides are decorated with stinging slashes from the glass, like angry claw marks. 

So is her sister, who she pulls out next, unrecognizable despite being lit by the dim glowing of the full moon. She can't distinguish where the destroyed car ends and where her mother begins.

Her hands are red and dripping. So is her face, her mouth, her chin - all bathed in crimson. 

The memory creeps up on her slowly then. The radio, a comforting drone, the last bit of sunlight leaving the sky, heavy lids, a steady pulse. Sleep, just for a minute. Just until they get home.

Unexplainable rage, fear, anxiety. A tidal wave of emotion that sweeps her away and pulls her under. Yelling. Crying. Teeth. Claws. Skin. Red.

Wheels turning, not round and round. The wrong way. So wrong, it's all wrong.

Then, black.

It's still dark when she opens her eyes, so she stops opening them.

The next time she does, it's to red again, and for a moment, she thinks she's back at that place. Drenched in her family's blood, cradling her sister's limp head to her chest.

_Malia Tate?_

It's an alpha, but it's also just a boy.

There's another one, too. Human, like her sister.

_Don't let him near me_ , she thinks, but she hasn't made those kind of sounds in years and she's not sure she still can. _Monster_. _She said monster. What I am_.

She hates playing human at first. Pretending that she didn't kill her family. Having people who don't know anything about her claiming it was all an accident - that it wasn't her fault. Staying in a place that's permeated by the stench of death and sadness, a place where you have to cover yourself up and ask permission.

The human's name is Stiles.

And she likes how he smells, so similar to her sister and mother. Familiar and comforting.

She likes how he touches her. Gently. Timid, but not frightened. How he says her name, because she has one, because he says she's a person and that she shouldn't forget that. Not ever. How could she when it's right there in his eyes, in the curl of his lips, in his large hands? 

Her favorite thing about Stiles, however, is the way he talks to her. It's not reproachful or pedantic. He doesn't baby or talk down to her. He just - talks. She doesn't understand all of it, but she doesn't need to. He does enough understanding for the both of them. 

Stiles doesn't think she's a monster.

Even when she's ripping chains off the wall and snapping her teeth at him, he's there, stubbornly refusing to leave. And he talks her off a ledge because talking is his strong suit and he's not nearly appreciated enough by the others for that. 

Stiles knows what it's like to be out of control. He doesn't tell her it's not her fault, because it is. Because he's done stuff that he can't take back either. Sometimes he wakes up in the middle of the night and refuses to go back to sleep even though they're not at the Eichen House anymore and _you're_ _safe now, she promises_. 

_I can't let him in_ , he'll explain, voice barely above a whimper.

Years ago, her sister had flinched away, petrified, but as she comes at him, he opens his arms. Warm, accepting.

It's still dark when she opens her eyes, but Stiles' are bright and full.

_You did it._

For the first time since she was nine, she knows what she is. Where she is.

Not a monster, not a human, not a werecoyote.

Just Malia. 

She's Malia, and she's home.


End file.
